


let's journey to a place we've never been

by myrish_lace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-07 07:06:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7705192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrish_lace/pseuds/myrish_lace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon and Sansa learn how they fit together after reclaiming Winterfell as their home. It's not always easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season 6.
> 
> An earlier, shorter version of this was called "tangled up in you." 
> 
> (I do my very best to check for typos, but if you see one, please let me know in the comments and I will fix it!)
> 
> I'm on tumblr as myrish-lace-love if you want to say hi!

**Sansa**

Her hair was long, and she wore it like her mother had, braided at her temples and loose around her shoulders. "Kissed by fire," the wildlings called her. Jon told her once it was lucky, and she still wondered why he'd looked so sad.

She had a problem, though. She couldn't quite brush it all the way through. It was starting to tangle, especially in the back. And there would be a large council tomorrow, a gathering of the Northern houses.

Littlefinger's gift, still in its polished wooden box on the mantle, was another complication. She wasn't up to thinking about that right now.

She brushed through as much of the mess as she could.

"Lady Sansa, it's Jon, to see you," Brienne announced.

"Let him in please, Brienne."

Jon walked in just as she cursed at a knot stuck in her brush. His eyes widened. 

"I didn't meant to startle you, are you all right?"

Part of Jon still saw her as a proper young lady, and it amused her such language could still shock him, given all they'd been through.

"Yes, I'm fine, Jon."

He closed the door, cutting off the colder air from the hallway.

"It's just -" Sansa yanked at the brush - "all this hair." Jon's mouth quirked up at the corner as she freed the brush and put it back on the table. "It's hard to manage it."

It felt like a foolish thing, to worry about how her hair looked, but she also had spent enough time in King's Landing to know appearances mattered. The ghosts from her past, Joffrey, Ramsey, Myranda, others, all of them kept her from asking for help. Sansa handled her hair, her gowns, her baths, anything that would require allowing someone else to touch her.

"Don't you have a lady's maid for that?"

"Do you see many ladies' maids these days, Jon?" she teased him. 

"No, no I don't."

"I'd rather do it myself," and she thought he understood. "What did you need, Jon?"

"I wanted to tell you, I talked to the wildlings, they'll bring by any extra furs from their hunts for you to work with." Sansa stayed up nights sewing cloaks, capes, and warm clothes for the children and old people among the wildlings Jon had rescued North of the Wall. The wildling camp around Winterfell was a mix of different tribes, sharing tents, fire pits, and plenty of arguments. Jon and Tormund had broken up more than one fight in the past few weeks. Sansa would have wrinkled her nose at the encampment as a girl, muddy and noisy as it was, but she welcomed it now. Winterfell often seemed too quiet to her, with most of her family gone.

"That's good Jon, thank you."

"They appreciate the kindness."

She waived his words away. "It's something to do, I like being useful." She glanced back at her table and thought she'd hidden her huff of annoyance. He took a step towards her, then stopped. 

"I could help you."

"What, with my hair? Are you a lady's maid now, Jon?" Her smile took any sting out of the words. These were the times she secretly lived for, when it was just the two of them.

"No," he said, rubbing the back of his head, "not really." 

"What would you know about brushing someone's hair?"

"I brushed horses at the wall," Jon said, and then shut his eyes. "I can't believe I just said that out loud." Sansa couldn't help laughing, and something like courage bubbled up in her chest. 

"Would you, Jon?" It was such a simple request, but it was difficult for her to ask.

Jon made it easier. "Of course, Sansa." She marveled that he didn't see how so many other men who'd been named King in the North would think this beneath them.

"Is it better if I stand?"

"It's easier if you sit in a chair behind me," she said.

"I saw your mother and you like that, once."

Her mother had loved to brush her hair till it shone like copper in the firelight.

Jon pulled up a chair behind her. He was quiet, but she didn't mind. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back. It was such a luxury, to have someone do this for her. It was such a luxury not to flinch at someone's touch. She heard his chair scrape against the floor to get a bit closer.

His hands made quick work of the first knots.

"You're good at this, Jon," she sighed. "I'm sure your horses liked you." She could feel him smiling.

"Your hair's so fine," he said softly, "the knots come out easily." She felt his fingertips at her temple, lightly, at the beginning of each stroke through her hair.

"Is this too hard?"

"No, Jon, you're gentler than mother was." She yawned, and then realized he'd not told her where he needed to be next. "I may fall asleep on you."

***

When she woke the room was dim. The sun had almost set.

She could feel Jon's solid presence behind her. "How long was I asleep?"

"Not that long." 

He was a terrible liar. "Jon, the sun's gone down, it's been at least a few hours. Were you here, the whole time?"

"Aye I didn't - you looked so peaceful, I didn't want to wake you."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Sansa."

"How did you get out that mess in the back?" She couldn't believe she'd slept through that.

"I just...concentrated," he said, and something in his tone made her shiver. "Do you need me to braid it? You'd have to show me, it always looks so intricate, around your head, small braids and large ones." His forehead creased, and it tickled her that a man ready to lead an army to war was flummoxed at dressing a woman's hair. She could only imagine what he would have made of the elaborate styles she'd worn back when she thought Cersei Lannister was the height of grace and beauty. 

"No, I can manage that part, thank you Jon. You'd better go, I'm sure Davos and Tormund are wondering where you are by now." He looked at her in confusion and she sighed, inwardly. _Think_ , _Jon, you spent hours in your sister's bedroom, unplanned, people see, they talk._ Not Brienne, of course. Brienne rather liked Jon. More importantly, she trusted him, and that was a short list to be on with Brienne. 

He got up with a strange reluctance and paused at the door.

"Good night, Sansa."

"Good night, Jon."

Her hair flowed like silk as pulled it over one shoulder. She looked down at the silver brush on the table. There was barely a strand caught in it. He'd taken such care, she wouldn't have been half so careful herself. Sansa braided her hair back to keep it from tangling again while she slept and threw two extra logs on for light and warmth. She reached for a cloak. It took her a few minutes to realize she was humming to herself as she sewed. The box on the mantle still weighed on her, but she felt strong enough to tackle it tomorrow. Jon had seen to that. 


	2. Chapter 2

The sweetness of Jon's company faded by morning. Nothing to do now but get on with it.

She'd promised Littlefinger a reward for his army, and she only had so much to trade with. He knew that, even though she'd turned him away at the godswood. She remembered placing a hand on his chest to stop that awful kiss. A small victory. _Don't shove him, no matter how much you want to._

Littlefinger had given her the gift that evening, in front of Jon, Davos, and Tormund, in the great hall. Robin had long since gone up, complaining about the cold, the food, and why he couldn't have his pet bird with him. Littlefinger presented it to her with a flourish, so everyone in the room could see. He even tossed his green cape back in a little bow. Only she knew how mocking that was. "From the Vale, a token of our affection. Robin and I are so glad to see you restored to Winterfell." _We brought you here, and we can take you away too._

The box weighed heavy in her hands. The crescent moon and falcon inlaid on the top glimmered in the candlelight. Littlefinger caught her hands, pressing the box's sharp corners into her skin. She couldn't push him away now, not with this audience. He leaned in. "Wear this when you're ready, sweetling." His stage whisper carried across the room. Jon tensed, but stayed at the table. Davos coughed. Tormund rumbled low in his chest. Tormund disliked Littlefinger on sight, but he couldn't deny the man had likely saved his life. Littlefinger's steps were neat and precise as he sauntered out. He wasn't trying to hide his confidence. That worried Sansa more than all the rest put together.

Tormund pointed his chin at the door. "Smart Southerner, he is." Jon couldn't keep still. _Don't make it worse Jon, please_. "Aye, but - " Tormund stood, towering over Jon. Sansa expected him to shout, but Tormund's voice was low.

"Smart enough not to do a thing even after he's said he'll do it, Snow." Sansa knew Tormund was saying something important, but she didn't understand it and she couldn't bear to watch the rest. She nodded at them each in turn, her head high. "Good night, Ser Davos, Tormund, Jon." 

Jon didn't look away from Tormund. "Good night, Sansa."

The edge in Jon's voice echoed in her head as she got ready for bed. 

***

Jon brought wood for her fire the next morning, as an excuse to talk to her. He was angry - about last night, and, still, about how she'd written Littlefinger without telling him. _Well, we've left that moment in the courtyard behind_. 

(He drove the cold away with his kiss to her forehead. The press of his lips against her skin and his gloved hands in her hair warmed her. He'd held the kiss a beat, two beats, too long, and she was still glad for it, gods help her. He'd looked at her before he went inside, after they'd laughed about the words of their house coming true. Something flickered across his face. He hesitated. "You should put your hood up, you'll catch a cold." Somehow, she didn't think that was what he meant to say.)

This wouldn't get any easier, and Jon wouldn't leave until she'd opened the box. A net of moonstones for her hair rested inside. They were blue, threaded with silver, the Eyrie's colors. A gift, a sly insinuation, and a warning all in one.

Jon saw the jewels catch the light.

"This isn't a trade, Sansa, you don't -"

"Enough," she'd said, sharper than she intended. The stones clicked together as she poured the net back into the velvet lining.

"He'll want me to wear it. There will be other gifts after this one. Now we're just talking about my price."

She saw Jon's hand grip Longclaw's pommel. "Sansa, you don't owe him. You don't owe him anything." 

 _Yes, I do, Jon. How can you not see that? You owe him, too_. "I'm back, Jon, we're home, Ramsey's gone, it's more than I'd hoped for."

"Do you have to? Isn't - I mean - can't your hair just be enough, on its own?"

She smiled, a bitter taste in her mouth. "It's a symbol, just like anything else. You wore the Lord Commander's cloak at the Wall, didn't you?"

"I did."

"Well then." He didn't like it, but he had no more arguments for her.

***

She turned the box over in her hands before dinner, restless. 

 _Isn't it enough, on its own?_   If only that were true. She knew they didn't live in that world. 

Brienne knocked. Jon had left something for her at the door, a pouch along with a scroll. "He told me to give it only to you, Lady Sansa, and only when you were alone."

Jon's handwriting wasn't as flowing as Littlefinger's or as clear as Maester Luwin's, but he'd been Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, he'd had to write his share of letters. 

+

      They found this, when they were getting your chambers ready. I didn't know what it was for, until now. I think it was your mother's. I wanted you to have it, in case you wanted to wear something from your family tonight. 

+

Inside the pouch was a silver hair clasp, plain and a little tarnished. After she dressed, Sansa pulled her hair back with it. She saw her mother's face looking at her in the mirror, and smiled. Maybe she hadn't given Jon enough credit. He'd noticed her distress, set out to fix it, and had enough sense to be discreet.

Littlefinger was the first to greet her at dinner. "Your hair, it shines like a banner for all the North to see, my lady, how remarkable that you manage it on your own." He never missed. Did he know about Jon's visit?

"Whose is that, what are you wearing? Uncle Petyr said you'd wear my present." Robin piped up behind Littlefinger, his high voice rising to a whine. Robin's arms were crossed and he shook, slightly. He hated not getting his way.

"We brought you an army, and moonstones for your hair." She barely caught Littlefinger's wince. It was a gamble, placing himself at the whims of this boy who gave too much away. A mistake, perhaps. Littlefinger didn't make many of them. She planned to take full advantage.

She bent down and hugged Robin, giving him her sweetest smile. 

"I am ever so grateful, Robin. The moonstones are beautiful, and far too fine for tonight, but I will wear them another night, I promise." She turned so Robin could see the clasp. "This was my mother's, I do miss her, just as I'm sure you miss yours, Robin." He looked down at the floor, all sulking gone. Sansa almost felt sorry for Robin. Almost. Littlefinger could play many roles for Robin, but mother was not one of them. 

"I understand. I do miss mother. Come back to the Vale, you could be my m -"

Littlefinger broke in. "Come Robin, let's go save our seats. The men will eat well tonight, with the supplies we brought, won't they? "Yes, the meat and the flour and sugar! They'd better be thankful!" A few heads turned. _Better and better._  "You'll sit with us, won't you, Sansa?" Robin's watery eyes were large as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. 

Well, I have no choice now, she thought. "Of course I will, Robin, save a seat for me."

She greeted as many lords and ladies as she could, moving from table to table. She had to admit she was glad they could put out a proper meal. The brown rolls had a thick crust, there was plenty of butter, and the scent of mutton mixed with onions in the stew was enough to make her stomach growl. Good food meant good company, and the hall rang with conversation and the clatter of plates and silver. Sansa had told those servants who remained to use Winterfell's finest dishes tonight. 

She spent a few seconds at the head table, passing behind where Jon sat. His hands were on his knees, and he scowled into his food. She glanced at Davos, trusting in his savvy. Davos took the cue, and poured Jon some wine. "It might be suitable for you to look more pleased, your Grace. The hall is full of allies, and men like to see their King enjoy himself." Jon paused, gave Davos a curt nod, and picked up a spoon.

Jon still hadn't looked at her. She knew she couldn't stay long. Robin was liable to shout across the hall. She sat next to Jon on the bench. "I wanted to thank you for the letter. It was comforting news."  Jon turned and his eyes softened. "I'm glad, Sansa." She was bold enough to risk pressing his hand, briefly, under the table. _Thank you._ She was safe, for another night, as she ate with Robin and Littlefinger. She didn't expect it to last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and commenting! I really appreciate it. :) I hope you liked this chapter. Jon's POV is up next!


	3. Chapter 3

**Jon**

He couldn't get the feel of it out of his mind. He'd touched her hair once before, when he'd kissed her forehead in the courtyard at Winterfell. His hands were gloved, but he could tell her hair was soft just the same. She'd called him a Stark, and said she should have told him about Littlefinger. He still wasn't sure about where they stood, but he knew she was trying to make things better between them. He was tired of fighting with her, with everyone. _We have to trust each other. We have so many enemies now_.

He'd kissed her brow longer than a brother should. The feel of her skin on his lips was too new, too sweet, and he couldn't break away. Jon was off balance when he let her go. He gave Sansa the same bow he'd been taught as a boy, for high-born ladies at court. He couldn't think of what else to do. She smiled as she told him about the white raven from the Citadel. "Winter is here." This was what he had imagined victory would look like - Sansa, safe and well at Winterfell. The falling snow settled on her hair, white against red, a constellation of stars, like Winter itself put jewels in her hair.

She cocked an eyebrow at him and he realized he'd been staring too long, just as he'd held that kiss for too long. He couldn't blurt out what was on his mind. He knew how cold she got, he remembered it from Castle Black, it was why he brought her extra wood for her fires. "You should put your hood up, you'll catch a cold." She didn't buy it, but she nodded and they parted.

***

She had relaxed enough to fall asleep as he drew the brush through her hair in the afternoon. He probably could have managed getting up and leaving without her noticing, but he didn't want her to wake up alone. And if he was honest, he simply didn't want to leave her. He knew he couldn't protect her, he couldn't stitch them back together entirely, but he could do this - he could watch over her, memorize how the setting sun brought out the copper in her hair, store away the fact that she snored a tiny bit. He smiled at that and wondered if she'd be appalled he knew.

She'd been right, of course, about people noticing. She was always right about that kind of thing. "Davos was looking for you, earlier," Brienne told him as he eased the hinges shut.

"What did you tell him?"  She shifted in her armor. "It's my place to know Lady Sansa's whereabouts, not yours. I told him I couldn't help him find you."

"Thank you." Brienne glanced at the door. "How is she?"

"All right, I think. It's hard for her, being here." Brienne looked him up and down. "It is. But not as hard as it was."

***

It had gotten easier, for both of them, as they fell into a routine. Ghost liked to sit with them in the Maester Luwin's old chambers underneath the rookery as they went over the letters that came and went. It had been peaceful last week, until Littlefinger had interrupted them.

"Do you open the scrolls before I read them?"

Jon had been standing at the window, a letter from the Mormonts in his hands. The snow was sparse outside. It was a reprieve from the ice storms. Sansa put her quill down at the table and looked over at him. A small smile played around her lips. "Wasn't the wax was still sealed?" He returned the smile. "It was. It's just - how do you know what each one is going to say, before you see it?"

"It's not that hard, Jon, you just have to think about how all the pieces fit together."

"You're better at it than I was, in the Watch. You might be better than Sam."

"Sam?"

"He was a friend of mine, at the Wall. He's at the Citadel now, studying to be a maester." Jon hoped it was true, that Sam and Gilly's boat had made it. What he wouldn't give to see a scroll from Sam.

"You miss him." Sansa's eyes were soft. "I do. He could see the pieces working together, like you can."

Ghost growled low in his throat. Sansa reached down and scratched his ears. Usually Ghost leaned into her leg like a puppy when she did. He stopped growling, but kept looking at the door.

"Am I disturbing you?" Littlefinger's face was ruddy from the stairs. His embroidered jacket looked out of place here, with the birds in their cages and the comfortable disarray of paper and wax.

"Lord Baelish. How can we help you?" Sansa's tone was mild. "Please don't trouble yourself, Lady Sansa. I only wanted to steal the King in the North for a moment."

"Ghost, stay with her." Jon needn't have bothered; Ghost wouldn't leave Sansa when he thought danger was about.

***

Littlefinger offered Jon wine in the rooms where he and Robin had stayed since the Vale army arrived. Jon declined.

"I wanted to thank you, your Grace, for your hospitality, and to let you know more supplies will be arriving from the Eyrie." Jon was weary of gritting his teeth at Littlefinger's _your Grace_.

"It's wonderful to see Lady Sansa looking so well. You do take such good care of her." Jon wished he could pinch the bridge of his nose. "What can I do for you, Lord Baelish?"

"We both want what's best for her. And she can't stay at Winterfell forever." Jon stayed silent. Silence made Littlefinger uneasy, he'd learned.

"Surely you see the difficulty," he said after a moment. Jon crossed his arms. "What difficulty?"

"Well, the men couldn't have picked a finer king. Winterfell belongs to you now." Littlefinger lifted his glass in a small toast.

"Winterfell belongs to Lady Sansa."

"Are you to be a beggar king then? You need a seat of power. Sansa understands that."

"It's up to Lady Sansa how long she stays here."

"What is it exactly you think you can offer her?" Littlefinger leaned forward and steepled his fingers together. "Military prowess? A dedicated army? Perhaps a secure marriage with her own household?"

"You know the answer to that." _I can't. And you think you can._ "She'd tell you herself no one can protect her."

"That's true, of course. But I can protect her better than most." He gave Jon a side-long glance. "You need to make room for a wife of your own, your Grace."

"Robb lost a war because he married the wrong woman. I'll not make his mistake."

"I've heard rumors of a Targaryen queen crossing the narrow sea, to challenge Cersei for the throne." Littlefinger inclined his head. "She might need a husband."

"I've told you, I have no interest in marriage." Jon stood. "I'm sure we'll be grateful for whatever the Eyrie has to offer, Lord Baelish." He headed for the door. Littlefinger raised his voice. "You think I've come to harm her. I only hope to make up for some of the horrors she suffered. That was my fault." He looked as contrite as a fox in a henhouse. Jon could almost give him points for effort.

"It's Lady Sansa you need to ask forgiveness from, not me. Excuse me, Lord Baelish."


	4. Chapter 4

Later that afternoon, Davos brought a boy and his father to Jon's chambers.

"Pardon, your Grace, but this boy's been accused of stealing." Jon was used to settling disputes as Lord Commander. It was good to have something familiar to do.

The boy's clothes were thin and poorly patched and Jon spotted bruised skin through the holes. He peeked at Jon through lank brown hair.

"Tell the King, tell him what you took." The father's grimace was no less menacing for being almost toothless. The boy squirmed in his grip. "The silver, before they cleaned the room."

The trunk stood against the wall. It was old, with brass latches, and it had probably belonged to Lord Stark. He'd told the servants to clean everything out of the Lord's Chambers and put what they found in the trunk, before Lady Sansa arrived. Sansa had mentioned Ramsey might have left her letters, or other "reminders", throughout the castle. He wanted to go though the trunk before giving it to Sansa in case there was anything he needed to warn her about.

Davos tossed Jon a pouch. The fabric was as worn as the boy's clothes. Metal clinked inside.

"Caught him with it, the little thief. Told him he had to come back to you straightaway. He's always sneaking about the tavern, not the first time he's nicked something either."

 _He's quick_ , Jon heard, _and he's quiet_. Pyp and Grenn taught him to notice what went unsaid, in the stories men told when they came to the Wall.

"Needs to be taught a lesson." Jon saw the boy flinch. "He -"

"I'd hear his side of it. Let him go." He kept his voice neutral, but the father fell silent.

Jon leaned forward and put his forearms on his knees, so he was at eye level with the boy.

"Did you take the silver?"

"Yes."

"Why did you take it?"

The boy froze, and Jon knew there was something here the boy didn't want to admit. Jon recognized that, too. "I was hungry. So was my sister. Wanted to get us some food."

"We feed you plenty -"  Jon held up his hand and the man stopped.

"You know it was wrong, what you did?"

"Yes."

"Is this everything you took?"

"No. I sold a piece of it, a knife with a silver handle. Had to clean it first, there was blood on it." Jon didn't want to think about where that blood might have come from.

"You'll stay here and work off your debt." Relief flashed in the boy's green eyes.

"Now, your Grace, how are we supposed to get by while he's here? He keeps the stables for us."

"You'll have one less mouth to feed, and he'll give you part of his wages. Davos, take him down to the stables." Jon pulled Davos aside. "Check on him after a week, would you? He might be better off here." "Aye, he might. I will, your Grace." Jon picked up the pouch up and tossed it into the trunk for later.

***

That night Littlefinger gave Sansa the box in the great hall. "Wear it when you're ready." It took every ounce of control Jon had not to stride over and insert himself between Littlefinger and Sansa.

Tormund drained his ale in one swig after Sansa left and slammed his tankard on the table. He glared at Jon.

"What do you want from me Tormund? Yes, I know he's smart-"

"He thinks himself king of this castle. What's he done?"

The bench creaked as Jon sat. He did pinch the bridge of his nose this time. "He brought an army, Tormund."

"Aye, and why did he do that?"

"Why did you bring yours?"

"Because you asked me to, Snow. No, you're not hearing me. Because you asked. You didn't order us. We would have told you to shove off if you did. Or enough of us would." Jon rested her arms on the table. "I just want to know what game he's playing." Tormund snorted. "Man like that won't do a thing unless it profits him one way or the other." Davos came to stand next to Tomund. "He's right, your Grace."

Jon sighed. "He says he'll protect her. Keep her safe." "I told you, Snow," Tormund grumbled. "He's smart enough not to do a thing, even when he says he will. Got a whole mess of secrets, hoards them like treasure. Treasure that stinks, after a while."

Davos cleared his throat. "He wants to marry her, doesn't he?" Jon asked. "I don't reckon so, your Grace. That puts too plain a face on it. He wants her to marry Robin Arryn." Tormund squinted at Davos. "The boy? The wee lad?"

"He won't be a boy for long. And if Robin fails, well then he's right there to marry her."

Jon rolled his tankard back and forth between his hands. "Could he help her, Davos? I can't get in the way of that, if it's what she needs."

"He'd help her. As long as it served him." Davos tilted his head. "Could be the rest of his days. Could be a week. Opportunity's what he loves. If it struck and she was in the way, he'd follow it and leave her in the dust."


	5. Chapter 5

 

Jon stacked the logs next to the hearth in Sansa's chambers the next morning. _I can protect her better than most. Wear it when you're ready._ He'd slept poorly the night before. He likely looked as agitated as he felt. Sansa took a deep breath and walked over to the mantle.

Jon hadn't seen much fine jewelry in his life, but enough nobility visited Winterfell when he was a boy that he recognized the net as an ornament for her hair. He saw Sansa shrink as she held up the jewels. How happy she would have been to get a gift like this as a girl. But it wasn't a gift, after all. _Does he think he can buy her, just as he sold her?_

"This isn't a trade, Sansa." He regretted it even as he said it, but it was too late.

"Enough. He'll want me to wear it. There will be other gifts after this one. Now we're just talking about my price." He hated it, when she did this, when she disconnected herself from the situation. She spoke of her value as if it was as trivial as the cost of bread.

 _You have no price_. He bit his tongue, he knew she'd call him foolish for it, and maybe she was right. What could he do to fix this, right now? Did she have to wear it tonight?

"Can't your hair just be enough, on its own?"

"You wore the Lord Commander's cloak, didn't you?" He remembered dropping it into Edd's arms when the bodies swung. Wear it, burn it. My watch has ended.

"I did."

"Well then." Her face was hard as she let the net slip back into the box.

***

Back in his chambers, Jon shook out the contents of the pouch. A plain silver clasp rolled out along with some coins. He would have thought it a brooch or a pin, but he remembered seeing Catelyn Stark with it glinting in her hair. He could give Sansa a choice, at least.

***

Jon still felt like a pretender, sitting where his father used to sit. He thought of all the times he'd looked up at this table as a boy, wanting more than anything to have a place here.

What Sansa decided to do tonight shouldn't matter this much to him. He'd given her an option, maybe a measure of freedom, and that should be enough. It didn't stop his fists from clenching. His heart beat faster when her grey skirts swept by the head table. He couldn't look at her. What was wrong with him?

Davos was at his elbow, telling him, in that quiet way of his, "Don't be such a stubborn ass." It would have made him smirk on a different night. Then Sansa sat next to him. He caught the faint scent of lemon that followed her wherever she went. She had silver in her hair and warmth in her eyes and when she pressed his hand under the table he let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

***

That night Jon fell asleep easily, though he had to build the fire up more than he usually did. How odd to be cold again. He hadn't been cold since he left the Wall.

He dreamed of Sansa's hair falling like silk through his fingers, the press of her hand on his.

They were in the godswood and Sansa smiled at him as he swept the snow from her hair. When he kissed her, she kissed him back and they knelt together under the weirwood tree.

Sansa and a man were on horseback and he could hear her calling his name even though they were far in the distance, two spots against a background of white. Ghost was at his side but he couldn't move, and soon she was gone.

***

He woke to a haze of bright light and noise.

"Three days now-"

"A fever, only a few of the wildlings have it -"

He tried to get up and realized he was covered in blankets. Ghost looked up from the foot of the bed. Sansa was at his side in an instant.  "Jon, can you hear me?"

"The king, he's awake -"

Sansa ordered them all out in her sternest voice, the one that sounded like her mother's. Did she see how they all followed her when she spoke? It struck him again how she belonged here, how lovely she was. He had to tell her. There was some reason he hadn't told her before, but it was a distant memory now.

Sansa tried to get him to drink.

"The snow -" She spared a glance out the window. She was pale and her eyes were rimmed with red. "Yes, it's snowing Jon, but it's not too bad, it's actually rather pretty, the way the flakes are falling." The strain in her tone betrayed her easy chatter.

"No." He tried to sit up again but a coughing fit took him.

"You have to rest, Jon."

"In the courtyard."

Sansa gave up and put down the soup bowl. "When we were in the courtyard together? When it was snowing and you told me to put my hood up, or I'd catch cold? Turns out it was you we needed to worry about."

Jon shook his head. It felt like it was made of glass.

"Something else."

"You wanted to tell me something else?"

He had to get the words out, no matter how raw and chafed his throat was. He looked at her.

"The snow. Winter jewels, in your hair." He brought his hand to her cheek. She was cool, like fresh water from a spring.

"You're so beautiful, on your own." Her eyes fluttered shut as she kissed his palm. "You have no price."

"Come back to me, Jon," she whispered. She covered his hand with her own. "Please. Come back." He faded into blackness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's fine, I promise! I hope you liked this update. :) 
> 
> As always, I do my very best to check for typos, but if you see one please let me know in the comments and I will fix it!


	6. Chapter 6

It was the one scroll Sansa couldn't figure out before she opened it. She'd been at Jon's side for four days straight, fretting, but she needed to know what was going outside the castle. She had asked Brienne to bring her the scrolls to her in Jon's room. 

"Here they are Lady Sansa...Are you eating enough? I wouldn't want to see you fall sick too." It was rare for Brienne to ask a question like that; she didn't pry, and Sansa loved her for it.

I must look a sight, she thought. "If you could have some fruit and cheese brought up I'd appreciate it, Brienne. And some more soup, please, for Jon." Brienne inclined her head as she shut the door.

Sansa knelt by the pile of scrolls lined up on the rug on the floor. She'd already mentally filed them away, all except one, she'd open them later, but she knew what they contained.

This scroll was tattered, as if it had been carried a long way, though the wax still held. It smelled faintly of the sea. A Tyrell seal. Why would the Tyrells be writing?

She was grateful she was alone when she snapped the wax open and unrolled it. The rustle of parchment was loud in the empty room. 

++

Lady Sansa,

Forgive the seal on this letter. I thought a Tyrell mark might be less likely to be tossed into the fire than a Lannister mark. I've had quite the adventure since I saw you last, and I hear you have as well.

  
By now you'll have heard of the dragon queen sailing to Westeros. Remarkably enough, I am on that ship. It's been difficult to find a raven, so I am afraid this letter may arrive only a few days before I do. I intend to come to Winterfell to explain further. I also hear you are now the Lady of Winterfell. I am happy for you. 

Yours,

Tyrion Lannister

++

My husband, he's going to claim he's my husband, that was her first thought as her throat constricted. But then she remembered that few were as careful as Tyrion when it came to choosing words. He had not addressed her as his wife. He had stated he was happy to hear she was the Lady of Winterfell. Perhaps that wasn't his intent.

She heard Jon murmur and rushed over to the bed. Jon's fever was a bad one. She hadn't realized how close they'd become until he fell ill. She worried about him, she'd expect to worry over any brother or sister, but she missed him too - talking to him, walking the castle with him, even joking together about how over the moon Tormund was for Brienne.  She'd sent them all away when he'd woken a day ago, because Jon needed space, yes, but also because she wasn't sure she could hide all of her emotions.

The way he'd looked at her when he told her she was beautiful, so beautiful on her own, how she had no price - that was the fever talking, that wasn't Jon, it couldn't be Jon, so why did it ring in her head? He was breathing easier now, and his color was closer to normal.

She heard another knock on the door, more insistent than Brienne's. She didn't need Ghost's low growl to tell her who it was. 

"Come in, Lord Baelish." She stayed by Jon's side. She thought it might throw him off if she didn't rise to greet him. She was right. He paused before speaking. 

"I came to check on you, Lady Sansa. Robin and are worried about you. Your devotion to your brother is touching, but it's been four days now, and there's no way to know if the fever is spreading. I must ask, my Lady - why do you risk your health?"

Lack of sleep could have made her less careful. _I'll care for him as I see fit._   But she wouldn't break for Littlefinger now. "They tell me it's burned out, the fever, among the wildlings. Tormund said it lasts five days, and they've all come through the worst of it. I don't think I'm in any real danger, Lord Baelish, but thank you for your concern."

She might as well have pointed directly at the door. Littlefinger knew when he'd been bested. He bowed and left. He's angry, she thought, I'll have to pay for that later.

She dipped the rag in the basin of water and washed away the sheen on Jon's face and neck. He stirred. 

"Sansa? Are you all right?" His eyes weren't fever-bright anyone. She gave him a small smile. How like him, to ask about her, when he was the one lying in bed sick. "You've been ill, Jon, a fever, four days now, but it seems like the worst of it's past. Some of the wildlings were sick, too, but they've recovered, and so will you." Sansa used her brightest voice.  

"Were you here, that whole time?" He doesn't remember, she thought, what he said, when he woke before. That was good. It was. She'd make herself believe it. 

He sat up, without coughing, which was a relief. "You slept here?" She looked over at the straw mattress she'd had brought in. "It wasn't any trouble, Jon, I just wanted to be here, when you woke, to make sure you got better." She'd meant to sound breezy, confident, as if this had been a minor interlude, but she couldn't pull it off.

"I'm sorry I worried you." His eyes were clear, and focused. She wouldn't dwell on the fact that he wasn't wearing a shirt, or how handsome he was.

She took his hand.  "You're here now, you're almost back to your old self, that's what matters." He twined his fingers with hers. "You shouldn't have, Sansa, you could have gotten sick too." She remembered how he'd touched her cheek, and she almost reached for him, but she settled for squeezing his hand. "Tell me you wouldn't have done the same for me." He smiled, softly. "I can't tell you that. I would have."

"I know, Jon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this! :) Tyrion's arrival is up next. It's my first time writing Tyrion, so wish me luck! :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As i see it, Tyrion's pre-disposed to be wistful for Sansa, and a little negative about Jon, so that's where this chapter is coming from. I hope I did Tyrion some justice. He's a challenge to write! :) Hope you like this installment!

Solid ground. Good wine. What one misses when on a sea voyage. There had been moments of beauty as they crossed the Narrow Sea. Dragons had soared above the salt spray, and he'd heard their bellows far above the sea birds. This is what freedom looks like, he’d thought.

He hadn’t expected a warm welcome when he arrived at Winterfell. In fact, he hadn’t been sure at first whether he’d see direwolves or flayed men on the banners. But Varys’s little whisperers were busy even as the waves lapped against the hull of the boats. He’d come to Tyrion’s door on mincing feet to tell him the Boltons were defeated, and Jon Snow and Sansa Stark ruled the North.

Winterfell was a rustic, rough-hewn castle, but a sturdy one. Gray and white direwolf banners graced the entrance, as promised. Sansa’s greeting had been measured, her blue eyes thoughtful. Tyrion knew he posed a problem for her, and hoped he could speak to her alone soon. Jon hadn’t done much apart from mumble a greeting and show him to his rooms. Not as luxurious as his chambers at King’s Landing, but they'd been serviceable enough for the past few days. There was a pleasing austerity to Winterfell that Tyrion appreciated. He hoped the luster wouldn’t wear off before he’d finished gathering intelligence.

The last time he’d visited, Robb Stark had sat in his father’s place at the head table. Strange how quickly the North had turned from the Yong Wolf to the White Wolf.

Tyrion sighed. He remembered his journey with Jon to the Wall. It was the lark of a rich man for him, it had been the exile of a bastard son for Jon. He’d been a sullen and spoiled boy, who needed to be reminded his new brothers had never held castle-forged steel.

Not particularly bright, had been Tyrion initial assessment. Frankly, it still held. Jon had made a mess of the battle with the Boltons. Sansa's cool head had saved him. Jon was good with a sword and had a famous name. Was that enough to name him King in the North?

_Well, I suppose they don't have many alternatives. There is a shortage of Starks._

Jon was more tempered though, he had to give him that. He'd tasted something of leadership, and he'd held up under it. But gods, the boy needed to learn how to keep his emotions in check. He hadn't seen it coming, the tension between Jon and Sansa, the obvious longing. He supposed it made some sense, from Jon’s perspective. Sansa had come to him in a time of need. That did something to a man, being needed that way, it made him stand up straighter and rise to the occasion. Usually.

Sansa, though – he’d only understood her reaction when he’d learned what had been done to her, and how Jon, who for all his faults seemed kind, and earnest, pledged to help her get her home back. Jon was rough around the edges, but he was tender and shy when it came to her.

A knock at his door stirred Tyrion out of his reverie. _  
_

“Lord Tyrion, may I come in?”

“Of course, Lady Sansa." Tyrion knew Sansa wanted to speak with him alone, but he hadn’t expected her so soon.

She held an ivory game board in her hands and walked gracefully over to the table. A cyvasse board. She gave him a small smile. “Do you remember teaching me, Lord Tyrion?”

“I remember I told you it was an old game, Lady Sansa. You beat me, if I recall.”

It had been stifling hot at King’s Landing and he'd persuaded her to walk the gardens. He’d arranged for a small cyvasse board with finely carved pieces to be set up in the dappled green shade. They’d spent a few pleasant hours together before she’d withdrawn into her shell again.

Sansa sat down gracefully, her hands in her lap. “I spent hours in my room studying the board you gave me, it was one of the few things I could do alone apart from praying.” Her brow was furrowed. “I’m – I’m sorry, Lord Tyrion. For how I treated you. It was cruel.”

“You were a child, my Lady.” Her rejection had stung, but it had hardly been the first he’d endured.

She took a deep breath. Tyrion poured her some wine and offered her some of the plump purple grapes that had been waiting for him in his room when he arrived. She thanked him and drank rather more than he expected.

“I was a child, Lord Tyrion. But you had no obligation to be kind, and every incentive to take your marital rights. You gave me a choice.” He heard her voice waver for the first time. “I appreciate that now.”

He inclined his head. “Thank you for your kind words, Lady Sansa. But I fear your recent treatment has led you to mistake common decency for an over-abundance of chivalry. I did what was right, no more.”

“Perhaps. But few men would have.”

Tyrion picked up a carved elephant. “Shall we play?”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, each considering the board and their moves. She was better than he remembered. 

“Have you taught this game to Jon, my lady?”

The ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “I haven’t. I expect you think he’d have no aptitude for it.”

Based on what he'd heard of the Battle of the Bastards, Tyrion agreed, but he thought it best to dodge the question. Besides, he had his own reasons for wanting to probe the nature of the relationship between Jon and Sansa. He reached for a grape. “Best to enjoy these while we can. Three won’t be much fresh fruit left as the Winter months drag on.” He affected a causal air. "He's a handsome fellow, Jon, for one back from the dead. A handsome face. It gives a great deal away, though. Especially when he looks at you."

Sansa stiffened ever so slightly, then relaxed. Well done, Tyrion thought. "What would Jon give away?" Sansa’s tone was light.

"It's obvious, Lady Sansa. You give it away too, only very occasionally."

Sansa looked at him coldly. “He's my half-brother, Lord Tyrion."

That’s not a denial, Tyrion thought. "We don't get to choose who we love. And he's clearly in love with you. He does you small kindnesses as well as large ones, doesn't he?” Sansa was silent. “He can't help himself. He's restless with how much he loves you." 

Sansa hesitated, and Tyrion swore he could see her evaluating and discarding various replies. This was a dangerous precipice for her. In the end, she surprised him by choosing honesty. "You must think me like your sister." Her cheeks were flushed.

"I don't." He tapped the table. "She and Jaime grew up together, lived together, were born together. You are not the same person you were at King's Landing. And he's come back from the dead, that counts for something. You weren't close as children. Cersei and Jamie are comfortable with it. He's not, nor are you."

"There are many reasons a foolish woman like me might yearn for a half-brother. It would be easy for me to explain it away as girlish fancy, as infatuation for the brother who saved me, as if part of me wants him to be my knight." Her eyes were piercing. "Human weakness, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion tipped his glass to her. "But only if he had no interest. Not when he looks at you -"

"I'm beautiful, Lord Tyrion, or so I’ve been told. He was a man of the Night's Watch, without a woman for a long time. He has eyes. Couldn't it just be what all men do?" Her voice cracked like a whip. Tyrion was taken aback.

"You're right, that could explain it, if he could be induced to look at other women the same way. A King's appetites, that old story."

Sansa made her next move, the ivory piece clicking on the board. "Why isn't that enough?

Tyrion sighed. "For risk of repeating myself like the village idiot, Lady Sansa, that's not how he looks at you."

"And how does he look at me?"

"The way your father looked at your mother. As if you're clear water and he's dying of thirst. As if you're the moon and the sun and the stars together. As if he wants to get down on his knees and ask you to marry him. When you talk his whole body listens, and he moves closer to you."

"How do I look at him, when I give it away, as you say, Lord Tyrion?" Her eyes were like ice.

"As if he's a knight come from a song, no matter how much you don't want to believe it. As if you could trust him to love you, if you could make yourself believe in love again." _Certainly not any way you ever looked at me._

The sounds of angry men shouting in the courtyard drew their attention. Sansa looked out the window. "It's the wildlings, the Northern lords, and Lyanna Mormont. It looks like it may turn into an ugly scene." The worry in Sansa's eyes had Tyrion opening the door for her as he ushered her out. She still adjusts her steps to mine, he thought, as they walked down the corridor. Perhaps he had missed her. Perhaps he still did.

   



	8. Chapter 8

Tyrion thought the most significant testament to Jon’s leadership was his ability to maintain a fragile peace between the Northern houses and the wildlings. Two groups who, under normal circumstances, would tear each other apart.

Both camps were jostling and shouting in the snow outside Winterfell’s walls. Jon was poised between them. Tyrion heard Sansa inhale sharply. The scene was chaotic, with men yelling and pushing at each other. Tormund stood with the wildlings, his great height and red beard easy to spot. A bad sign. From what Tyrion had seen, Tormund was usually able to help broker a peace, and explain the actions of “kneelers” for the wildlings.

Jon had enough innate authority to hold the crowds back without drawing his sword, but the men were still riled up. Tyrion caught snatches of the shouting.

“A noble lady-“

“We were only talking about stealing her! We hadn’t done it!”

“House Mormont won’t stand for this-“

Tyrion sussed it out. Apparently a few of the wildling men had been overheard joking about whether it would be possible to steal Lyanna Mormont for a wife, when Lyanna was older. Tyrion had gathered that the wildlings admired Lyanna Mormont. As young as she was, she’d brought a room of men to their knees, and then called on them to rise to their feet.

 Sansa’s voice was low. “Jon’s already sent for her, I expect.”

“For Lady Mormont?” Tyrion tried to hide his surprise.

“It’s a risky play.” Sansa was tense, her shoulders were drawn and her eyes darted from the wildlings to Jon. “But Jon’s lived with the wildlings. He knew any proclamation from the lords wouldn’t be good enough for them. The wildlings – meant it as a kind of compliment, I think, to Lady Mormont.”

Tyrion glanced at Jon, resolute and solemn in the snow, waiting for Lady Mormont to arrive. “And Jon chose to let her speak for herself, rather than speaking for her.”

Sansa’s brow creased. “Yes. I suppose you think it was foolish.”

Tyrion couldn’t disagree. “I may. But the queen I serve would not.”

The murmur of the crowd stilled as Lady Mormont rode in and came to a halt in front of Jon. Her white horse stamped in the snow as she pulled the reins. “You sent for me, your Grace?”

“I did.” Jon looked up at her. “Your men have been fighting with the Free Folk, and they told me you were the cause of the dispute.

A lord broke free from the crowd. “These savages have threatened her, your Grace!” Lord Hornwood’s face was beet red. Lyanna’s expression was grim, and Lord Hornwood seemed to quail under her gaze. ““We were only trying to defend your honor my lady –“

“I’ll decide what needs defending.” She urged her horse over to the group of wildlings. “What is it you want to say to me?”

A tall man dressed in grey and brown furs standing next to Tormund spoke up. “We were trying to decide if we could steal you.”

“What does that mean?” She sat strong and high on her horse.

“Well, if one of us were to take you for a wife we’d have to steal you.”

“How would you manage it?” Lady Mormont looked only curious.

“We’d have to take you from your home.”

The Northerners began shouting again. Some even attempted to rattle their swords. Lady Mormont cut them off with one gloved hand. Tyrion had always believed a warrior needed a battlefield voice. Having seen Lady Mormont cow these men with a gesture, he had his doubts. “What did you conclude?”

The wildling man grinned, baring his teeth. “That we’d have a better chance of stealing any of these Northern lords than stealing you. You’ve got more balls than they do.”

A hint of a smile graced Lyanna’s face. She turned to the assembled lords. “Was this the fuss you raised? Over whether one of them would steal me?

“My lady, your reputation-“

“Enough. You were trying to pick a fight. The last thing we can afford now. If it doesn’t concern me, my lords, it should not concern you. My honor is mine to defend. If you want my regard, keep the peace.” Her eyes rested briefly on Jon. “Was that all, your Grace?”

“Yes, my lady.” Lyanna nodded and the crowd parted for her as she left. She has as much presence as Cersei, Tyrion thought.

Jon’s voice carried in the clear air.  “You’ve heard her. We’ve a common enemy. Any war between ourselves weakens us. If you want to make them glad tonight, keep fighting. If you want to bring an end to this war, work together.” Jon didn’t bellow like Robert, or give rousing speeches like Daenerys. But it sufficed. The dangerous energy dissipated, and the two groups dispersed. Tyrion saw Jon catch Sansa’s eye afterwards, and something passed between them. Sansa gave Tyrion a short, parting nod before following Jon back to the castle.

“Lord Tyrion, a moment of your time?” Littlefinger was at Tyrion’s elbow. At last, Tyrion thought.

“Lord Baelish. Wonderful to finally meet you here in the North. I want to thank you for taking such excellent care of my wife in my absence.”

Littlefinger had the sense to look abashed. “She's restored to Winterfell thanks to the efforts of the Knights of the Vale. I can never make up for what was done to her.”

“Yes. Well, I suppose I can't blame you for thinking me dead, and her a widow.”

“She wanted to avenge her family, Lord Tyion.”

“A noble goal.” _How did you think one woman would fare in a den of monsters?_

Littlefinger blew into his hands and rubbed them together to warm them. At least he’s not used to the cold yet either, Tyrion thought. “I’ve heard rumors you serve a new–“

“A new queen, yes.” Tyrion grinned. “For the first time in my life, I'm betting against my family.”

“I see. My deepest condolences on the loss of your niece and nephew, Lord Tyrion.” It was true, then. Tyrion hadn’t known for sure whether both Myrcella and Tommen were dead. The look on Littlefinger’s face settled the matter. Cersei ruled at King's Landing, and his niece and nephews were gone. Tommen, who'd snuck saucers of milk for the kittens that stole into the castle from Fleabottom. Myrcella. Her green eyes and blond hair had mirrored Cersei's, but her sweet and trusting nature was her own. She'd hugged Tyrion as tightly as she'd hugged his brother Jaime, and it had helped heal a piece of Tyrion's heart each time. Tyrion pushed his inner turmoil down. He wouldn’t show weakness in front of Littlefinger.

Littlefinger gestured to Jon and Sansa, their heads bent together. Sansa had her hood up, to shield her from the snow, no doubt, and to make it harder for onlookers to guess what she and Jon were discussing. “Now there’s a well-matched pair. Pity they’re brother and sister. Though I’m sure your new queen has some experience with...unconventional marriages.”

“Well, she’s the last Targaryen alive. Hardly a recipe for any sort of unconventional marriage.” Littlefinger only smiled and stroked the mockingbird pin that fastened his cloak. Tyrion tucked that gesture away for later. Littlefinger was proud of his secrets. Tyrion had noticed over the years at King’s Landing that Littlefinger would touch the sigil of his house unconsciously when he thought he alone was privy to certain knowledge. Did Littlefinger know something about his queen’s family?

“I’m certain you’ll be able to convey to your queen that you and I have chosen our allies wisely thus far, Lord Tyrion.” Littlefinger’s tone was mocking. Apparently he hadn’t thought much of Jon’s display of leadership. He had birds of his own, and likely knew Daenerys was headed for King’s Landing. Perhaps Littlefinger hoped Tyrion would report back on an example of Jon’s poor qualities as a king, and provide Littlefinger with more leverage in the next few moves of the game.  So far, he was out of luck. Daenerys was likely to be pleased that Jon had asked Lady Mormont to come judge the fight for herself. Lady Mormont, Asha Greyjoy, and Daenerys Targaryen – there was an alliance that would strike fear into men’s hearts, Tyrion thought, as he took his leave of Littlefinger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's up next, along with the parentage reveal :) Thanks for sticking with me!


End file.
